Saints And Sinners: In the Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms of Mercia and Lindsey

By John Broughton

Saxon times were not called the Dark Ages for nothing. It was a violent, unrecognizable world of kill or be killed.

In seventh century England, tribes and so-called kings vie for power and blood flows throughout the land. Aethelred - ruler of Mercia - is being pressed from all sides, and his wife Osthryth dies under unknown circumstances. Osthryth's ring falls into the hands of warrior noble Aethelbald, who is accused of her murder and forced to leave Mercia by his conniving cousin Coeolred, who has eyes on the throne. When Aethelred abdicates and the weakling Cenred assumes power, Coelred sees a path to become the king.

With a court rife with would-be successors, can Aethelbald survive and become Bretwaldas - the 'Britain-ruler' - and sweep aside the underkings to unite the land?

Based on true stories, John Broughton's Saints and Sinners shines a light on the murky Dark Ages, and recreates a Britain on the cusp of momentous change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Dec 23, 2021
• ISBN: 4824110505

Book preview

Glossary

Anglo-Saxon names and their modern equivalents in order of appearance:

Bryn Alyn: Iron Age hill fort, Denbighshire, North Wales

Mierce: Mercia, Anglo-Saxon kingdom centring on the Trent valley (Midlands of England)

Powys: Welsh kingdom

Tame Weorth: Tamworth, capital of Mercia

Pengwern: Capital of 7thC. Powys, exact location unknown today

Gwylog ap Beli: King of Powys (born ?655, died 725)

Wealisc: The Welsh

Trente: River Trent

Lindisfarona: The folk of Lindsey

Lindissi: Lindsey

Northanhymbra: Northumbria

Estseaxna: East Saxons

Bretwaldas: King of all Angle-land, supreme ruler over all the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms

Beardan: Bardney, Lincolnshire

Hwicca: Anglo-Saxon kingdom, covering Gloucestershire, Worcestershire, part of Warwickshire

Gegnesburh: Gainsborough, Lincolnshire

Lindcolne: Lincoln, Lincolnshire

Withma: River Witham

Suthanhymbra: Southumbria, the easterly part of North Mercia

Newerche: Newark, Nottinghamshire

Snotingham: Nottingham

Northworthig: Derby

Woercs-worth: Wirksworth, South Yorkshire

Hymbre: River Humber

Loidis: Leeds, Yorkshire

Elmet: Brittonic kingdom, modern Peak District and parts of Yorkshire

Elmetsaete: The folk of Elmet

Saefern: River Severn

Scheth: River Sheaf

Hreapandune: Repton, Derbyshire

Heyholand: High Hoyland, Yorkshire

Cezeburgh: Kexbrough, Yorkshire

Wacanfeld: Wakefield, Yorkshire

Estdeping: Market Deeping, Lincolnshire Fens

Weolud: River Welland

Norðsae: North Sea

Cruwland: Crowland, Lincolnshire Fens

Nen: River Nene

Witentreu: West Shropshire area. In disuse, a name continuing to this day in Whittery Wood

Cyricbyrig: Chirbury, Shropshire

Wealas: Wales

Waelheal: Anglo-Saxon version of Valhalla

Lunden: London

Weala-denu: Saffron Walden

Licidfelth: Lichfield, Staffordshire, site of the most important see in Mercia

Akeman: Street A major Roman road linking Watling Street with the Fosse Way

Medeshamstede: Peterborough, Cambridgeshire

Wockingas: Woking, Surrey

Cantwaraburh: Canterbury, Kent

Hludoham: Lowdham, Nottinghamshire

Dummoc: Walton Castle, Suffolk, seat of the Est Anglia Church

Deope: River Deben

Grantebrycge: Cambridge

Holbece: Holbeach, Lincolnshire Fens

Wintan-ceastre: Winchester, Hampshire

Fyrdmen: Anglo-Saxon freemen mobilized for the army

Hlydanford: Lydford, Devon

Tamur: River Tamar

Tantun: Taunton, Somerset

Langeberga: Langport, Somerset

Sumorsaete: Somerset

Perryt: River Parrett

Hamwic: Southampton

Salwic: Droitwich Spa, Worcs.

Stanford: Stamford, Lincolnshire

Sunnendaeg: Sunday

Saeterdaeg: Saturday

Couentre: Coventry, Warwickshire

scir: shire

Castra: Weogernensis Worcester

Chapter 1

Bryn Alyn, North-west Mierce, 697AD

Lit by the thinning arc of the sinking sun, Aethelbald prowled the ramparts of Bryn Alyn. To his fancy, the last red sliver resembled a mouth turned down, bathing him in melancholic light. The feeble glow suited his sombre mood and that of his comrade, Guthlac, pacing at his side. Weeks of enforced idleness and futile vigilance stoked their despondency, monotony gnawing at their youthful exuberance. Another two months of this torture to endure – if only Wealisc insurgents would resume their raids on Mierce! Silent in bored comradeship, they paused to lounge against the wooden parapet, until, heartbeat quickening, Aethelbald seized the arm of his companion: the blare of a horn!

Had the men of Powys summoned the courage to start an assault? At twilight? Sheer folly! The mysterious folk who had built this fortress at the dawn of Time had chosen the west-facing limestone cliff of Caer Alyn as a buttress to repel invaders. It meant a daylight attack was daunting, but only extreme foolhardiness might account for an onslaught in the gloom. In any case, as Guthlac pointed out, the strident note had resounded from the east.

Hurtling down from the parapet, Aethelbald halted, planting feet apart and arms folded, while the guards swung open the huge oak gates. In seconds, Guthlac joined him to witness the scouting party, out since noon, canter into the enclosure. Their leader, a half-blinded thegn who had fought with Guthlac's father at the Battle of the Trente, dismounted and fixed his sighted eye on the commander.

Lord, we came upon a rider in the forest watering his horse at the brook by Rhydtalog. He sought not to flee but asked to be led to you and Lord Guthlac. He spoke your names and claims to bring a message.

An imperious wave of the hand made the horsemen part their animals to reveal a dark-haired, swarthy individual astride a bay mare. The features of Aethelbald clouded, A Briton! Am I surrounded by dolts? A spy of Gwylog ap Beli spins a tale for witless fools to swallow…seize him! Haul him down and flay the truth out of him!

Six of the party, prepared to haul the stranger from his mount, leapt off their horses.

Stay! Guthlac glared around the men, stilled at his command. Raising his hands in a gesture of apology to Aethelbald, his leader and closest friend, he said, Let us hear what the Briton has to say for himself.

Heedless of the hostile scowls and muttered threats directed at him, unruffled, the newcomer addressed them in their own Anglian tongue.

Lord, I am indeed a Briton, my forefathers are of the Lindisfarona not of the Wealisc. I travel from Lindissi bearing a message.

Out with it then! Aethelbald's patience, eroded by inactivity, creaked like thin ice.

The messenger shook his head. He reached for his sword and the warriors surrounding him did likewise, only for the Briton to unhook the weapon and drop it, his seax followed.

The message is for your ears only, he indicated Aethelbald and Guthlac, lifted his chin in defiance and added, and for none other.

Within the storeroom adapted to plan sallies from the stronghold, hands flat on the chart-covered table, Aethelbald leant forward, curiosity aroused.

What's so urgent to make a man ride two score leagues and more?

The messenger delved deep inside his tunic and pulled forth a heavy ring, handing it to the Miercian ealdorman. Aethelbald turned the band in his palm and stared at the roundel wrought with a fine-scrolled edge. The raised circle contained alternate strips of red and yellow gold – eight red and yellow stripes: the emblem of Northanhymbra. Overlaying them, embossed in white gold, shone the letter O.

I'm sure this ring graced our former queen, Osthryth. How came you by it? asked Aethelbald, passing it to Guthlac whose whistle betrayed awe and admiration for the lustrous jewel.

Entrusted to me in secrecy by her hand, Lord, that you should know this message reaches you in good faith from the Lady herself.

The news-bearer held up his hand in refusal when Guthlac tried to give back the ring, My instructions are to leave it in your safekeeping, Lord.

Guthlac passed it back to his leader who turned it in his hand once more admiring how the light caught its facets and played across the different coloured gold.

'I'll keep it willingly. One day, beautiful objects like this will be mine by rights.'

Back to matters in hand. The puzzled expression of Guthlac mirrored his own.

What of your message?

Nought but a summons, Lord. Make all haste to Beardan!

Is all?

Ay, Lord.

Will you accompany us there?

The messenger shook his head, I fear not, for I have another aerende. I leave at dawn.

Whither are you bound?

…I must not say!

Sup with us tonight, friend, Aethelbald said. Go, tend your horse, rest before joining us in the hall at table.

When the door closed, Aethelbald took the ring and contemplating it, said, I loathe riddles! At board, we'll ply the Briton with ale and loosen his tongue. By the gods, Guthlac, there's mischief afoot! I may yet skin the cur alive for I swear I'll get the truth out of him!

When Guthlac was a princeling of Miercian royal descent he upped and left home, tired of studying, to form a war band. He paid for their arms from his own purse. He led them to Mierce's troubled borderlands where he slaughtered, plundered and raped without mercy until King Aethelred ordered him to form a garrison at Bryn Alyn under the command of the teenaged Aethelbald, a kinsman also of royal descent. The leonine head and tall well-muscled build of Æthelbald belied his youthfulness. Yet, he proved more ruthless in battle than Guthlac. Away from fighting, the two young men shared a love of heavy drinking and wenching, thus they forged a deep friendship that would endure a lifetime.

An hour later, a serving woman ladled steaming white carrot and onion stew into bowls set before the ealdormen. The chair beside Aethelbald stood empty.

What do you mean, he left?

His bellow caused the servant to start and slop scalding liquid over her lord's hand.

Whore! Get out of my sight!

The warrior struck out sending the ladle clattering to the floor and leaving a red weal on the skin of the offending arm.

Hold! Guthlac leapt up and caught the weeping serving maid, stroking her wet cheek before bending to pick up the utensil. Our commander meant no harm, he is overwrought, he said, grinning into her face and handing back the implement, come! I beseech you, my stomach is that of a ravening wolf!

She rewarded his good looks and gentle mock howl close to her ear with a feeble smile and a brimming bowl of stew.

The wench forgotten, Aethelbald stared at the warrior who had failed to fetch the messenger to table.

Left? he repeated.

Ay, Lord. The men at the gate say he came straight from your quarters after delivering his message, gathered up his weapons, took his horse and rode out into the night.

Wolves devour him! Wights snatch his soul and carry it to Hell!

The ealdorman dismissed the man and turned to Guthlac. He'd leave at dawn, the cur said. He played us for a fool! It will be well for the Briton our paths never cross. What do you make of it?

Guthlac tore at a piece of bread and dipped it in his stew, The message is vouched by the ring, his next words came muffled by food, the messenger doubted our intentions…and he was right!

Aethelbald frowned, considering their situation, You're right, of course. Our thegns can hold the fortress with Gwylog holed up in his den at Pengwern–

But what of our King? Guthlac asked. Should the Wealisc shrug off their lethargy and reave the farmsteads of Mierce, Aethelred will skewer our heads on stakes for leaving our post.

Powys, our spies inform us, turns its eyes westward where the men of Gwynedd play them at their own game of plunder and rape, of skirmish and ravages. That is why, my dull-witted friend, these eastern borderlands are as still as a graveyard.

Guthlac laughed, A mournful place befitting a headless ealdorman seems excuse enough to leave!

"Agreed then, we set off at dawn! Aethelbald clapped his comrade on the back and poured more ale for them both, adding half under his breath, so only Guthlac caught his words, though no-one must know whitherward."

At daybreak, with care for their horses legs, they picked their way down over the rutted, slippery limestone pavement fringing the summit of Bryn Alyn. Aethelbald gazed around, pleased to be leaving the joyless outpost behind but at the same time overawed by its wild beauty. To the north, the Irish Sea reflected the rosy hue of the rising sun while overhead, the towering song of the skylark accompanied them. His eyes roved to the west to the Clwydian Hills where he could almost imagine the bald pate of Moel Fama nodding a sullen farewell.

Deep along a forest trail, riding side by side, Guthlac glanced at the fierce countenance of his comrade, and was startled to meet an intense stare.

What?

Here, we can talk. There are no ears to seize on careless words.

Well?

The loyalty of our queen lay ever with her homeland and not with Aethelred. Too much blood spilt between Northanhymbra and Mierce to hope their wedding might heal old wounds.

Ay, added to her father's defeat at the Trente with her brother slain…

A jay, in a pink and blue flash, burst from a blackthorn bush and startled their horses. Aethelbald cursed and soothed his skittery beast before continuing.

We must be wary, Guthlac, I sense a plot. At the centre is Beardan and the nun, our erstwhile queen.

A plot?

The face of Guthlac, troubled now, brought a wry smile to Aethelbald's lips. His friend's childlike sincerity bordered on ingenuity. He would trust him with his life but not if any threat involved deceit.

It might not be a coincidence, he flicked a hand at a bothersome horsefly, the kingdom of the Hwicca preoccupies Aethelred. Remember, their King Oshere is kinsman to Osthryth.

Wordless, they rode on but not in silence, the air laden with buzzing insects and birdsong until Guthlac asked, "Ay, but where do we fit into this supposed plot?"

What do we have in common apart from bedding comely wenches and supping ale?

We're both warriors?

Aethelbald snorted, Ay, and each has two arms and two legs for that matter! Think on, we're both sons of two of the mightiest men in the north of our kingdom!

So?

"So? So! By Thunor's anvil, Guthlac! Is there not a grain of guile in yon pretty maid's head of yours? If Osthryth wishes to weaken Aethelred in favour of Northanhymbra will she not seek to detach the underkings from their Miercian overlord? Might she not desire to dethrone the king and put her son in his place?"

And you think this is her game?

Aethelbald brushed his long blond hair back from his brow, Of one thing I'm sure, we'll find out when we get to Beardan.

They dismounted by a brook fringed by lush grass where they filled their leather flasks after leading their horses to drink and to graze. Over a frugal meal of bread and cheese, Guthlac resumed their earlier conversation, We ought to go back to Bryn Alyn. Why risk being drawn into a secret scheme against the King?

Aethelbald sat up, eyes blazing with an ardour Guthlac had rarely seen. Taking Osthryth's ring from inside his tunic, he stared at it long and hard as though drawing inspiration from the jewel. Fist closing over the ornate band, he thrust it back out of sight.

My father's father shared the throne with his brother Penda, to rule over North Mierce. There was no love lost between the brothers and when Oswald of Northanhymbra took up arms against Penda, my grandsire fought beside him and was slain at the battle of Maserfield. By Thunor's hammer, are you following me, Guthlac?

The younger man met the steely gaze of his companion and looked down at the ground. In truth, the harshness and passion in his comrade's voice disconcerted him.

Ay, go on!

Aethelbald drew up his knees to his chest and leaned his forearms on them. This concentrated Guthlac's attention on the piercing blue-grey eyes blazing amid the coarse beard and long hair.

Since his death, Penda's offspring rule over Mierce. My father was never king. The warrior sprang to his feet and his powerful frame towered over his friend, "but I have my dreams. Our King Aethelred is old. He is loosening the grip of Mierce on the south, making concessions to Kent and the Estseaxna whilst he fails to crush the Wealisc. The court is rife with would-be successors each weaker than the other. What we need is a Bretwaldas – a 'Britain-ruler' – someone to sweep aside the underkings and take control, one brave and ruthless – of the ilk of Raedwald – now he was a great king! He held out his hand and seizing Guthlac's, hauled him to his feet. Thrusting his face into his friend's, he said, I am that man! Not Aethelred or any other! That is why we go to Beardan. One day, I shall rule from the coast in the south to the land of the Picts. I swear it to you. Remember these words!"

Chapter 2

Beardan, Kingdom of Lindissi, 697AD

A Princess of Northanhymbra and Queen of Mierce, of late a nun in the abbey of Beardan, every day Sister Osthryth rose before Lauds and sunrise. Shaded by her hand, a flame flickered in the breeze off the river. Her steps, guided by familiarity, needed little light for the short trip from her cell to St Oswald's church. Therein lay the mortal remains of her sainted uncle.

She slipped through the heavy oak door and, grateful now for the candlelight, pattered down the stone stairs into the bitter chill of the crypt. Her frosted breath mingled in a rising wreath with the faint smoke from her candle. An involuntary shiver shook her slender frame, making the shadows cast by her taper leap like a band of villains assailing a vulnerable nocturnal prey.

The thin weave of her woollen dress offered no protection from the ice-cold paving as she knelt before the tomb of the martyred king. Used to the harshness of the fenland winter, Osthryth ignored the numbing surroundings and set about her devotions. She spoke aloud, certain the nuns, deep in sleep, would not rouse until the abbey bell summoned them.

Uncle, I beg you, intercede on my behalf with the Lord! Beseech His help to sup, regardless, from the bitter chalice of scorn placed to my lips…and to bear this cross. How my heart aches to think of Aethelred lying with his new wife and, I, reviled, tossed aside like a worn shoe! O my dear King, be my guide, assist me that I accept my lot and lead me to the light!

On the last word, the candle guttered and she gasped, fearful of being left in complete darkness among the dead. She and Aethelred had founded the monastery and its doors had opened less than a year past. Six months ago, the same entry, she recalled, had remained resolutely barred to the ox-cart carrying the earthly remains of her beloved uncle, leaving her party to pitch a tent on the isthmus connecting the isle to the mainland.

Dear heart, she whispered to her departed relative, forgive me when I spit out my bitterness. I ought to be grateful, to be here beside your shrine, a wry laugh escaped her, remember how hostile were the monks who shut us out? They knew you were a saint but would not accept you. Oh, the folly and weakness of men! They pursued you dead, with ancient enmities, for you from a distant kingdom had taken rule over them, my dear. Osthryth groaned altering her position by leaning backwards to take some weight off her frozen knees. But then came the miracle! she continued, the beam of light from your coffin shining into the sky all the night. The sinners no longer defied God's will and let us enter!

A rhythmic tolling, faint here below the earth, urged her to curtail her prayers.

Hark! The bell! Uncle, I wish grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. I must away to join my brothers and sisters at Lauds. Until the next time, dear heart.

She rose, her joints protesting at the mortification they had endured, knowing not that her poor body would ere long suffer no more.

Sister Osthryth climbed the crypt steps and emerged from the church to be greeted by the first feeble rays of the rising sun. The nun stamped her feet to revive them before setting off towards the Church of Saints Peter and Paul in the wake of several of her confraternity.

At the same moment, two cowled figures tugged together on a rope rigged around a pulley. The splashing of water breaking against the bows of the ferryboat as the hooded men hauled it across the River Withma was the only sound to disturb the silence preceding the dawn chorus. The whole island formed the abbey. When the two men stepped ashore they found no obstacle to their entry. The only gate was the one in the palisade across the isthmus at the opposite end of the isle. The taller of the two men pulled his cowl farther down over his face and said to his companion, The ringing carries in the air from over the rise. It's there we must go. Receiving only a grunt by way of reply, he added, There's plenty of time before they come out. Hark, the chiming stops! The priest begins the Dawn Prayer.

Under a lightening sky, they made their way past the dew-beaded thatch of the nuns quarters and beyond the dormitory of the monks. They passed the dorter used for guests, aware of it as the only